


Comfort And Steel

by yumimum



Category: Blackpool
Genre: Bathroom Sex, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Hurt/Comfort, Oral Sex, Romance, Sexual Content, Shameless Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-15
Updated: 2014-03-15
Packaged: 2018-01-15 20:47:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1318654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yumimum/pseuds/yumimum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How he managed to render that one, simple word an obscenity she would never know.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Comfort And Steel

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so if you've made it this far then, hello, thank you, and allow me to tell you a little story. I discovered Blackpool a few months ago, and, like any self-respecting fangirl who'd been spoilt by the abundance of Who!fic, I immediately went in search of some Peter/Natalie to get my fix. Two days later I realised that Blackpool was the fandom fic forgot, and because I'm stubborn--and because I wanted to put a little something out there for anyone else in the same position--this shameless excuse for smut was born. I hope you enjoy it.

It was the shift of the mattress that roused her first—well, that and the mournful loss of Peter’s erection pressed firmly to her spine—and Natalie let loose a heavy sigh as she reached for the duvet, willing  herself  back to sleep in the crisp, Glaswegian air. It was early—too early, judging by the shadows outside the window. All the same, the soft caress of Egyptian cotton was no substitute for the arms that’d held her so securely, and as a series of bangs and clatters echoed throughout their flat she abandoned all hopes for a lie-in, straightened the shirt she’d claimed the night before, then padded, barefoot, towards the bathroom.

The constant pressure of a high-profile case had taken its toll in the past three months, yet seemingly the habits of a consummate bachelor had proved even _harder_ to kick. By now, she was no stranger to the daily struggle of Man vs. Hair, but with the absence of tuneless singing a stark accompaniment to the dark shadows beneath Peter’s eyes, Natalie couldn’t help but worry as he bowed his head, gripped the work surface tightly and—

_Wait._

—smirked at her through the en-suite mirror.   

“Good morning,” he said, flashing a wink and wriggling his towel-clad bum for good measure. “Enjoying the sights?”

Clearly there’d been some sort of breakthrough—either that or he’d found the Mars bars—and Natalie’s spirits lifted as she leaned against the doorframe, her gaze drifting with impunity as he stretched out his tired muscles.

“Who needs a tourist map when I’ve got you, eh? Coffee?”

“Aye.” Peter nodded. “I trust I’ll need it.”

Pastries too, if she wasn’t mistaken, and with a little added sway to her hips Natalie turned to leave, only to stop short at the hissed expletives from behind her. “Are you alright?” she asked, rushing forward to stem the flow of blood now seeping from his cheek. Thankfully, the cut itself wasn’t very deep, but the apparent lack of soap was sure to leave an abrasion.“Don’t tell me. You fancied a new scar for this designer stubble?”

“Ah, you know me,” Peter conceded as she tossed the dirtied cloth in the laundry basket. “I’d hate to fall short of the masculine ideal.”

“And here I thought you were comfortable with your gender issues,” she teased, eyes falling to the straight razor lying in the sink. “Is that what you’re using?”

Peter shrugged. “Needed a wee rake over is all.”

“And what’s wrong with a disposable?”

“Oh, Natalie,” he declared. “Where would we be without the odd act of impulsiveness, eh? Where’s the thrill? The unpredictability?”

“The bloodshed?”

“ _My mind rebels at stagnation,”_ he quoted as she gifted him an indulgent grin. “ _Give me problems, give me work, and_ _I am in my own atmosphere_ _._ I paraphrase, of course, but wise man that Conan Doyle—now there’s a chap who understood the _yen_ for mental rapture. The fickle desire to—“

“—slit one’s throat?”

“Quite.” Ever restless, Peter’s fingers danced over her arm. “Don’t worry,” he said. “It wasnae intentional—had a brush with the Samaritan’s once before and look how that turned out, eh?”

“Behave,” she warned, smacking him on the shoulder as she reached for the shaving foam. “Still, it’ll all have to come off now.”

“You reckon?”

“Oh, definitely,” she murmured, lathering her hands then smoothing it over his jaw. “So tell me, did your man Doyle have any more words of wisdom?”

“Well, that depends,” he said, looking thoughtful as she rinsed the blade under the tap. “Are you partial to deerstalkers?”

On him? Probably. And Natalie swallowed hard as she brought the razor to his throat. “I missed you last night.”

“Aye, me, too,” he whispered, tilting his chin to allow a better angle. “The clean-up ran late—too late. I didnae want to wake you.”

“I wouldn’t have minded.”

“No, but I would,” he said, catching her eye. “You need your rest, too, remember?”

Like she could forget, and Natalie smiled as the sheer sensuality of the moment grew thicker with the continual scratch of blade across stubble. Straight away, she could see the appeal—appreciate what Peter had been trying to tell her. For a mind that seldom stopped, this outmoded approach must’ve brought some small measure of clarity. And given their mendacious beginnings, perhaps it was only fitting that this brief oasis of calm should rely so heavily on careful precision—time and patience—something they were _both_ sorely lacking.

“Almost done,” she whispered, and it was a true labour of love to keep from trembling as the lethal steel swept along paths her lips and fingers had charted intimately in the past eighteen months. Oh, what she wouldn’t give for an electric razor right about now. Still, as Peter shivered under her cautious touch, Natalie navigated the last patch of growth, her thumb stroking the velvety skin as he steadied her at the waist. “There.”

“Perfect,” he said, one hand skimming her side in a lazy caress. “And what d’ya know? Back to my _devilishly_ handsome self to boot.”

“Right...” Natalie cocked an eyebrow as she rinsed the soap from his neck. “Well, at least your ego survived intact.”

“Aye, and that’s not the only thing,” he said, rolling his hips with a smirk. “Would you care for a demonstration?”

“Promises, promises.”

“Oh, yes,” he laughed, and Natalie gasped out loud as he closed the gap between them, shattering her good intentions with the heady rush of his kiss. All hopes for redemption were lost in the slick slide of his tongue, and a burning heat pooled in her belly as Peter bit down on her bottom lip, growling under his breath as he fumbled with the buttons of her shirt.

_His_ shirt, technically, she supposed. Either way, the meagre covering was no match for the dark promises he whispered in her ear, and Natalie jolted in excitement as he tore the garment from her arms. “Peter...” she murmured, her gaze darting fitfully towards the mirror. “Shouldn’t we— _”_ In the blink of an eye her bra was hanging from the light fixture, and Natalie whimpered her approval as his chest brushed her nipples—a shiver coursing down her spine at the exquisite torture. “Bedroom—”

“Too far.”

“But—”

“Natalie...” His accent was rougher—more pronounced—yet how he managed to render that one, simple word an obscenity she would never know. “I _need_ you.”

God help her, she needed him, too. But with Peter’s eyes standing as a blood-shot testament to the pressure he was under, Natalie’s fears returned in force as she squeezed him through the course material of his towel. “You’re sure?”

Her lover merely scoffed. “What do you think?” he said, sweeping aside the various clutter and depositing her firmly atop the bathroom counter. Cradling her cheek, he moved between the open invitation of her thighs, and Natalie squirmed against the tiled surface as he hauled her closer, ravishing her lips until the burning need for air grew impossible to ignore.

“Eager, are we?” she teased, the smell of soap and musk invading her senses as Peter’s tongue made a sinful appearance.

“Oh, aye. And you’re one to talk, eh?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It _means_ ,” he said, fingertips strumming a brief staccato across her stomach, “I think you’re _wet_ , Mrs Carlisle.” One more step and he was grinding against her. “In fact, I’d go so far’s to say you’re positively _drenched_.”

“I see...” Mischief personified, Natalie turned her attention to his throat. “And what’s brought this on? Detective’s intuition?”

“Well, I do have a nose for clues.”

“But of course,” she agreed, earning a low groan as she nursed a mottled bruise. “A fine, _upstanding,_ detective like yourself—”

“I’ll show you _upstanding_ ,” he growled, and Natalie gasped in delight as he cupped her breasts from beneath, tweaking the sensitive peaks between his fingers. It wasn’t enough though—not nearly enough—but where his hands wandered his mouth soon followed, and before long she was panting heavily as Peter dropped to his knees, eying the scant covering of her underwear.

“Now, would you look at that?” he murmured, nose brushing her centre through the gauzy fabric.“What did I tell you, eh? These knickers are _soaked_.”Grinning wolfishly, he bunched them to the side, and Natalie thanked her lucky stars for his oral fixation as he swept his tongue over her slippery flesh, circling the swollen bundle of nerves before peeling the sodden material from her ankles. “Better?”

“I...”

A shaky nod was the best she could manage, and Peter licked his lips as he raised her leg to his shoulder, placing a kiss to her pulsing clit. “Beautiful,” he murmured, mouth freshly crowned by her arousal. “You’re beautiful, Natalie.” Such simple praise sent her insides fluttering, and Peter fell silent as he proceeded to hike the tension—taunting her with a leisurely pattern of flicks and half-circles before easing back with long, broad, swathes of his tongue.

“Please,” she begged, lost to her body’s demands when he slipped two fingers within her. “Please, I... I need—I want...”

“What do you want, love?”

“You,” she cried mindlessly. “Just you...” There was no disguising the tremor in her voice, and the hand between her legs working feverishly as Peter brought an arm up to keep her balanced.

“You’re close, aren’t you?”

Denial was not an option—not with the harsh whimpers spilling from her throat—and Natalie could only pray their neighbours were heavy sleepers as he surged to his feet, a third finger breaching her entrance like some well-choreographed dance. “Don’t stop...”

“Never,” he promised, that wicked mouth sliding to her collar bone as the sun’s rays crested the horizon outside. It was a bleak world that awaited them beyond these four walls, but with Peter’s thumb poised above her clit Natalie savoured the salty-tang of their kiss—melting into the duel sensations until she was moaning, writhing, _screaming_ his name as she hurtled, head-first, into release.

“God...”

Peter snickered. “Not bloody likely,” he said, as she wilted against him. “Though far be it for me to discourage this particular form of worship.”

“Yeah, right...” Nothing in her life compared to this feeling of adoration, and a full smile graced Natalie’s lips as she freed the towel from his waist.  “C’mere, you,” she murmured, locking her ankles behind him.

“Natalie...”

Peter’s mouth sought her shoulder when she finally took him in hand.

“Your turn.”  

“Fuck...”              

“That’s the general idea,” she replied, guiding him to position. Once again, she rubbed his neglected cock over her core, and playtime apparently over, Peter groaned as he surged forward, burying himself in one, smooth glide. “Oh my _God_!”

“There you go again,” he teased, and it was all she could do to hold on tight when he began to move inside her, warm breath skirting her neck as the angle of his penetration left her speechless. Experience had taught them the perfect rhythm, but time was a luxury they could ill afford, and Natalie arched in unspoken offering as she met his thrusts—sharp nails scoring his arse in an attempt to pull him deeper.

“Touch yourself,” he panted, chasing the blush across her chest as he braced a hand against the mirror. “I’ve got you, love... touch yourself...”

And maybe it was the desperation in his voice, perhaps it was just the way he trembled against her, but soon she was snaking a hand to the place they were joined—nimble fingers encircling his length as he tugged on her hair, recapturing her lips with his own. Nothing else mattered but this moment. Nothing else _existed_ save the two of them. In and out, he drove her higher. In and out, mimicking the action with his tongue until his strokes become erratic and there was nothing left to do but fuck him, yes, _fuck_ _him_ in the dingy bathroom of the cramped flat they called their own.

“Oh!” she gasped, or maybe he moaned, she wasn’t quite sure. “Oh... yes...”

Rough and needy, their kisses grew in urgency as Natalie rubbed quick circles above her clit. Faster, harder, she keened her encouragement until Peter’s cries drowned out her own, pleasure coursing through her veins as he clutched her tightly, anchoring them both in the blind rush of completion that followed.

How long it took them to recover she didn’t quite know, but sweaty, sated, and in dire need of _another_ shower, they revelled in the aftermath—neither of them willing to move whilst their bodies fought for some semblance of normality—the beat of Peter’s heart a perpetual countdown to the moment of goodbye.

“Natalie...”

Her name—just her name—but the sheer wealth of emotion contained within was enough to send her reeling. “I know,” she confirmed, snuggling closer as his mobile chirped from the room next door. “Go close the case, Sherlock. Tonight, we’ll make proper use of that bathtub...”

The _handcuffs,_ too, as it so happened.

But that was a tale for another day.


End file.
